


Laminar Flow

by plsnskanks (orphan_account)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Read at Own Risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11845866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/plsnskanks
Summary: He forgets.





	Laminar Flow

**Author's Note:**

> It's hard for me to tag this without spoiling the point of the work. It does not end well. If you are looking for uplifting this one isnt for you. If you are sensitive to dark themes, not for you.

He wakes up on the cool linoleum floor of his own kitchen. His mouth tastes like acid and he can’t even imagine what was in it last night. 

Last night.

He can’t remember what happened last night. Or the night before. His whole past is this wash of emptiness and he is scrambling around on the floor trying to get both his mental and physical bearings. His head hurts. There’s this pulsing pain radiating through it and he’s afraid if he stands he will either fall over again, or flat out puke.

So he sits there, on his hands and knees, until the world feels stable again. Then he pushes himself up. Grabs the table as a wash of dizziness comes in an overwhelming tide and the entire room feels like a boat unmoored.

Then all at once things seem to snap together. He takes his first steady step. Then his second. Then another. And another. In this unfamiliar apartment where dim light leaks onto the floor like spilled milk, helping him find his way as he tries to understand its shaky threadbare layout.

Makes it through the singular doorway in the room and out into the narrow hallway.

There’s a gun on his bed. Now he doesn’t remember much. Anything, really. But a gun on one’s bed seems a little out of place, no matter who he is. He picks it up.

Turns it over.

His eyes catch the underside of it. In small, neat handwriting is written, “Return to Tord.”

He doesn’t know a Tord. Sounds like an odd name. Like “toward” without the extra syllable. He doesn’t even know where to begin looking for him. Where he lives, what he looks like, if he even knows who he is?

But maybe he does.

Maybe he does know who he is. It strikes him that he should really figure that out and also what he’s supposed to be doing. Does he have family? Friends? Dreams? Is someone worried for him?

He’s got a solo path right now, find out who he is. What if he’s missing his job and he’s going to get fired?

He shuffles around the apartment, looking at things, trying to piece together who he is. There’s no photos. Barely any personal belongings. Whoever he is, he has a bland taste in fashion. Dark hoodies. Black pants. Worn sneakers. No logos, no bright colors, nothing.

Finally he gets sick of trying to figure himself out. If this even is his house. The slow horror dawns on him that this could be anyone’s house. He could be a burglar. Or a murderer, maybe there’s a rotting body somewhere he’s supposed to be disposing of. What if he was watching someone’s house for them? Supposed to be walking their dog? 

God if there’s a dead dog somewhere he doesn’t want to stick around to find it. He looks around the room one more time and his eyes catch on the nightstand. He sees a wallet and a phone. The phone is useless he discovers, because he has no clue what the passcode is. He locks himself out typing in random codes. As he gazes at the screen, at a loss he notices there are a few texts and missed calls on the screen, all from anonymous numbers.

The latest text reads, “Are you going to be okay?”

He opens the wallet. To be greeted with a surprising amount of hard cash. Cold bills. He flips through it and finds an ID. Finally, he’s getting somewhere. He realizes, he has no idea what he looks like.

He takes the wallet into the bathroom and looks into the mirror. Yeah, this is him. Same eyes. Same hair. Same nose.

Apparently his name is Larry.

Kind of a boring name if you ask him, but hey, he’s sure it will grow on him. He decides it’s time to get going after he grabs something to eat. He makes his way out into the kitchen and opens the fridge. It’s pretty desolate. After rifling around the kitchen he ends up with some kind of mayo and mystery meat sandwich.

Is it satisfying? No. Is it filling? It’ll do.

So he opens the door outside. He isn’t sure how long he was asleep, or when he finally went to bed, but the light outside is weak and growing weaker. Everything is dull and drab. He’s on a city block and as he is walking away it strikes him that he should look at his address so he can find his way back. Call a cab and pay in cash.

He notes it, memorizes the street and walks down. It’s a nice evening. The sun is going down, the whole sky is this soft shade of purple he doesn’t have a name for. He just keep walking and watching it deepen and deepen into a shade of indigo that strikes him as very nice.

Peaceful. Like this entire block. There’s no one out and he isn’t sure if that’s normal for this time, or odd, but it strikes him as a little eerie. No cars in the street either, they are all parked in two silent lines on either side. The road itself is a steady black line disappearing somewhere in front of him, beyond his line of sight.

The buildings on either side are covered in windows that are lighted intermittently. He looks at those too, as he passes. Catches glimpses of laughing faces, cats curled up on window sills, flower boxes half withered. He thinks maybe he would like to own a cat.

It’s like looking through a scrap book where none of the people stay the same and it strikes him how cold it is on the outside. He doesn’t want to go back to that address, even if it is his. He gets the feeling when he figures out where home actually is, it’s going to be cold, vacant, empty.

Like the city block that stretches on in front of him. He keeps walking noting the stationary cars, the silence pressing in, the increasing feeling that something is off, something is wrong, he’s wrong.

He needs help.

The street lights come flickering on in a line, the light rushing up to meet him in a steady line until he finds himself bathing in yellow light, alone in one of the pools as the dark deepens around him. He stands on his little yellow island, wondering what to do next. 

Go home? Go to sleep? Maybe people will be out tomorrow. He is so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t notice the high beams cutting through the dark in a direct incision towards him until he can smell exhaust and is looking over to see the idling black car cracking a window.

“Hey you, you’re out after curfew, that’s a write up,” a stern voice commands.

A man leans out, takes one look at him and then doors on both sides are slamming open.

He finds himself being shoved violently against the wall and his headache is coming back in full force.   
Hands are in his pockets, patting him down.

“Make sure you check thoroughly, this one is a menace,” One of the men says in a harsh tone.

A menace? Him? He’s absolutely harmless-.

“He’s got a gun, good call,” The other man responds. He immediately tries to twist in the grip as he realizes the one potential link to his old life is being taken away from him. 

“Wait, you can’t do that, I need to find Tord, I need to talk to him,” He shouts. His arm twists painfully and he lets out a harsh gasp as a crack of radiating pain pulses up his arm, synchronizing and intensifying his headache.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take you to him, he’ll love to see you,” the voice growls in his ear and his stomach drops as he is yanked off the wall and handcuffed then shoved into the back of the car. 

They sit in silence. He looks out the window, watching the street lights pass slowly, one by one until they fade into a blur, a slipstream of light that rides along with them. The buildings around them grow taller and denser and start looking more regal. More important. They are these moon-white marble things, with deep crimson banners trailing from every high point.   
They stop at some sort of check point and are almost immediately waved through.

One of the men says, “We got him” to the checkpoint guard and a loud whoop and shout is heard. The man in the passenger seat turns back to look at him.

“You were one pain to find, I’ll hand you that, when you dropped off the radar after the coup attempt, you dropped off hard. Guess it isn’t easy knowing your little friend paid for your fuck up huh?” 

He just stares back blankly. He doesn’t even know where to begin piecing this information together. Where to attempt to tape the edges so he can see the large picture. Then the thought hits him hard and heavy.

Does he even want to know? Was he saving himself from something?

They pull up in front of a large stone building, it has a dome top and sprawls out for blocks in either direction. It reminds him of something vaguely Roman, business like. He gets the idea important decisions are made in this area. Other stone buildings of similar architecture surround it, but this building is by far the most outstanding in size and complexity.

A large banner trails down the front, white with some sort of red smear that looks like an “M” vaguely.

He allows himself to be lead up the steps, to be pushed through the doors. The interior is wide and empty except for intermittent pillars, smooth tiled floors and walls decorate with elaborate paintings of people he’s probably never met, high ceilings echoing their footsteps as they walk.

They walk straight ahead and then abruptly turn left to head down a hallway that reveals itself behind a pillar. At last they seem to reach their destination. A solid wooden door is unlocked and it reveals an empty room with nothing but a desk and two chairs. 

They seat him in the chair and as the last man leaves he says, “Red Leader will be with you shortly.” Then the door is closed and he is left alone in silence. He wishes the guards had recuffed his hands in front of him, his shoulders are starting to ache and he just wants someone to tell him what to do or where to go.

He wants someone to give him a vague direction to follow because his map is wiped clean.

The door opens and a man enters. This is the third man that will speak to him today, and hopefully this one is Tord and he can give him answers to questions he doesn’t know to ask. The man is holding some sort of guitar in his hand and when he looks at his face he feels nauseous a bit.

The man’s face is horribly disfigured on one side. He isn’t sure if it was acid, or fire, or something else, but he doesn’t look well. He is grateful for the eyepatch covering whatever remains of the man’s eye.

“Hello, I suppose you came here for Susan? Or to get your little rebel pals out of prison?” The man says.

“No. I came here to see Tord. Are you Tord?” He asks.

“Yes, I’m afraid that hasn’t changed of late, and until you can aim properly I am afraid it won’t be changing anytime soon either.”

He nods and Tord looks at him strangely.

“So resigned Tom, this is unlike you. I must say, I was looking forward to seeing you again, especially after our last engagement was so… heated,” Tord smirks at some hidden joke that completely goes over his head.

“Tom?”

Tord’s eyes narrow, “Are we going to play the stupid game all night? I am running low on patience for this bit and I am afraid Susan might suffer the consequences.” Tord reaches a hand, a metal hand, Tom realizes and grips the guitar, squeezing so tightly Tom hears it give a little crack.

“Did you get your gun back?” He asks.

“My what?” Tord says, looking at him in surprise. He sets the guitar down and he notes how the instrument has impressions where Tord was gripping it.

“Your gun. One of the men took it, but I was supposed to return it to you. Did you get it?”

“Tom, this is no game, what are you trying to pull here? If this is some trick I assure you, Edd will pay.”

“I’m not Tom. I am Larry,” he says. “They took my wallet too, but you can check my ID.”

Tord blinks at him slowly, face creasing in annoyance as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a radio. He presses a button and talks into it, “Hey Paul, please bring the confiscated items taken off of Tom.”

“Larry,” he corrects.

“This is cute. I assure you, very cute Thomas, but let’s drop the charade now,” Tord is leaning over the desk and he is scooting his chair back nervously as Tord positively radiates agitation. 

“I came here for help, I need you to help me,” he says softly, looking up at Tord with wide, confused eyes. Tord’s face softens and he reaches out his human hand to touch his face.

“Tom, you can’t imagine how long I have waited to hear you say that, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much,” Tord says as he strokes his thumb on his cheek. He is looking at him so tenderly, so intensely, waiting for him to say something. What does he want to hear?

“I’m sorry you know? Sorry about last time. Things got out of hand, and if I could, I would take it back, all of it,” Tord murmurs as he cards a hand through his hair. 

“Can you help me?” He asks. He needs this, he needs this clarification. Tord looks at him, pity written clear across his face, mouth opening as he prepares to speak but is distracted as he hears a knock. 

“A moment Tom, I assure you, I will help you after this.” He raises his voice, “Come in!”

Tord looks up from him as the door opens. A small box is placed in front of him. 

“Paul, uncuff him while you’re at it, he’s harmless,” Tord says as he looks at the box in front of him with interest. Finally he feels his shoulders loosen up as his hands are allowed to be in his full control again.

“Be careful boss,” Paul warns as he turns to go.

Tord smiles at him tiredly, looking at his old friend “I assure you, Tom has nothing up his sleeve that I haven’t already seen before.”

Tord opens it and takes out the wallet. Turns it over. Pries it open. Inspects the ID and ignores the cash. 

“Larry, really?” Tord smiles as he sets it on the table. He doesn’t get the joke. Then Tord reaches in and pulls out the gun. And stares at it. Turns it over. Inspects it. His eyes catch on the little tape note. He looks back at him and all the color is leaving his face as he stares at him with dead eyes.

“Tom, when is your birthday?” he asks in an even tone as he sets the gun down on the table.

He looks at Tord frustrated, “I don’t know! I do not know! I woke up and I can’t remember anything and all I found was this gun with that note that said go find you! Are you telling me you don’t know either?” He can hear his pitch rising and rising to a terrifying pitch and the crushing weight that he is alone with no past and an unplanned future is making it hard for him to keep pulling in breaths of air.

Tord’s face is crumbling in front of him and he doesn’t know what to do as he watches his only hope put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he hides his face from view. It’s quiet. It’s silent for a long moment except for this low rhythmic clicking sound, no it’s more like a soft “a-a-a” sound. Tord pulls his face out of his hands and he realizes he was laughing. Laughing himself to tears.

“Ah you know? You always knew just how to get me, didn’t you?” Tord says, sitting back in his chair and gesturing widely. “How to get right under my skin and, tear it off.” Tord snarls as he is slamming his metal fist onto the desk and he jumps in response. Tord hunches over the desk and he looks up at him, and he can’t remember the rest of his life, but he will remember this face for the rest of his life.

He grins up at him, lips quaking and turning down towards the edges. “You could have just walked in and shot yourself in the face, you know? Could have just, done that instead of have your living corpse walk to me instead.”

He looks at him, stunned, afraid. Is he going to die here? Was this some cruel joke he played on himself? Some sort of roundabout suicide? Is that metal hand going to crush his windpipe?

Tord extends his hand out calmly, his organic one. He flinches back. Tord regains his composure and every hint of emotion is tucked away, his red rimmed eyes the only thing betraying his earlier display. 

“Pardon me, I must have made a bad first impression. It’s Larry, right? It is so very, very nice to meet you.” He takes his hand. Tord shakes it once before letting go and drawing his hand back. He nods a little too sharply to be natural.

“I’m Tord.”

**Author's Note:**

> fuggedaboutit over @ plsnskanks.tumblr.com


End file.
